Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [109]
“It leaves open the question of what your role should be in larger issues, of course. But you can address that in your own conscience far better than I can. You were trained as a priest, Damien Vryce, and ordained in a centuries-old tradition of sanctity and obedience. I pray that you will reflect upon that tradition during the trials yet to come, and consider how your actions reflect upon us all.” He paused, as if to ascertain that his point had hit home, and then said quietly, “That’s all. You are dismissed.”
Stunned, Damien managed to get to his feet. He wanted to say something, to protest, anything—but the Patriarch’s attention had already turned elsewhere, cutting that option short. And what was he going to say to him anyway? How would his petty trials of conscience measure up to this man‘s, whose shoulders had taken on a burden so terrible that God’s own Church might topple if he stumbled? What were one priest’s paltry misgivings, compared to that?
Shaken, he pushed the folded envelope into his pants pocket without looking at it. The Patriarch’s words had given him freedom to act as he saw fit, yet he felt more bound than ever. The man had acknowledged that conscience must sometimes give way to expediency, and yet Damien’s conscience burned even hotter as a result. Had he done right, he wondered suddenly, to cling to the priesthood with such desperation? Was that true service to God, in the face of all he had done, or service to himself?
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to bow. Deeply: a motion not only of ritual obeisance, but of heartfelt respect. You had the right to judge me, he thought somberly. Only you, of all men. I would have respected it. I would have obeyed. Now, instead, the Patriarch had left that judgment in Damien’s hands. It wasn’t a burden as heavy as his own, but it was heavy enough. The priest flinched as he accepted it.
“May God be with you,” he whispered, bowing again. Meeting the Patriarch’s eyes for one fleeting second as he rose, sensing the torment behind them.
And may the fae be merciful.
Twenty-three
YAMAS: The violence surrounding the Forest took a dark turn last night as residents of Yamas sacrificed two of their own people, in what appears to be an effort to placate that hungry power.
Nile Ashforth and Maklesia Sert were hanged shortly before dawn at the western gate of Yamas, barely ten miles from the Forest’s edge. Both men had apparently been rousted from their beds by an angry mob of some two dozen townspeople and dragged to the site, where they were stripped, hanged, and mutilated. Police say that the symbols carved into their chests correspond to those used by the Hunter’s servants for identification, and that the bodies may have been meant as a kind of offering, intended to propitiate the Hunter and protect the town. If so, it marks the first time that living men have turned against their own kind in this region, and officials in Yamas consider it a dangerous precedent.
A joint funeral for the two men will be held at the Leonia Funeral Home at six p.m. on Sunday. Offerings in memory of Mers Ashforth and Sert can be made to the gods Keruna and Tlaos at that time, in accordance with their respective traditions.
Twenty-four
The waiting room outside the Patriarch’s study was exactly ten paces by six. Long paces, hurriedly measured, with a pounding heart for accompaniment. As he completed his tenth circuit—or was it his twelfth?—Andrys wondered if he might not be better off fleeing right now, rather than waiting for the Father of the Church to frighten him into doing so.
What did he want with him anyway? In another time and place he might have imagined it had something to do with the perceived importance of his family